Competition winners

Jesse Blackadder

Young writer awards: The winners

This year, Byron Writers Festival hosted two writing competitions, The Susie Warrick Young Writers Award and The Jesse Blackadder Prize. These competitions celebrate the art of the short story, encouraging aspiring young writers in years 5-12 who reside within the Byron Writers Festival footprint to pursue and explore their talents.

Students were asked to write a short story on any theme from 500 to 1000 words, depending on the age category. Overall, we received over 130 submissions and were taken aback by the creativity, originality and talent of the young writers in our region. Judging was difficult with many competitive submissions. Those who submitted deserve to be very proud of themselves! It is with great pleasure that we share the first-place stories with you on the following pages. Runner-up stories can be found at the Byron Writers Festival blog. Susie Warrick Young Writers Award Susie Warrick was a much-loved staff member at the Northern Rivers Writers Centre (now Byron Writers Festival). This award celebrates the art of the short story and supports emerging young writers in furthering their career with a $500 cash prize for first place per category. Prize Category 1 (year 10-12) First place: ‘Nipotino’ by Luisa Santucci Runner up: ‘I Do Not Know Which to Prefer’ by Saoirse Chu Prize Category 2 (year 7-9) First place: ‘The Hunter’ by Floyd Whitaker Runner-up: ‘The Alley’ by Elise Nikkinen

Nipotino

By Luisa Santucci

The front door is made of strong straight grained chestnut lumber and carries the characters ‘1726 FC’ etched deep into the gray stone lintel. Nipotino is only small. Too small to read and write. He wouldn’t know until decades later that ‘FC’ betokened Franco Croce, his grandfather and brothers’ name. Nonna kisses each cheek, she talks loud and fast, her harsh dialectal cadence, breathes hot into Nipotino’s cold ears. Someone is sick. That’s why they’ve come. From home on their farm, onto the plane, onto the bus, to arrive here. This is the first time they have met. The first of only three. Thirty-two years later, Nipotino will have a new born daughter and it will be her first time meeting Nonna. The only time. Later, Nipotino is gifted a bright tangerine tricycle. He has never ridden one before. Drunk with glee, he pedals through every room in the house and at the ankles of every zio and zia he can find. Nonno is sick. He lays in bed all day, in a room upstairs. Nipotino lies by his side. Listening. Talking. Being told stories: of a greedy piglet who refused to listen to his mother and ate so much salami that he grew as fat as his shed; of a chicken who laid golden eggs; of the family who hid their sheep in the roof to avoid town taxes. Sometimes Nipotino climbs down from the bed to ride around in circles. Nonno laughs weakly at him as he grumbles softly like the engine of a mopehead, tracing an invisible road, swerving from invisible pedestrians. When Nonna climbs the stairs bringing with her the sweet aromas from the kitchen, she berates Nipotino cruelly for riding inside. Her rough scratchy hands hoist him up off the tricycle by his arms and onto the icy terrazzo floor. Her firm footsteps mask Nipotino’s complaints, as she lugs the tricycle downstairs, away from Nonno’s gentle reassurances that there was no harm done. Across the cobblestone kitchen floor, past the table where women bicker noisily whilst making yolk-yellow pasta, and out the narrow back door, Nonna marches far into the yard, gleaming tricycle in hand. Nipotino cries angrily trailing behind, his scrunched little fists beating against the back of her legs. Abruptly she stops outside the cellar door and Nipotino tumbles into her, leaving a sodden tear stamp on her dark handwoven cotton dress. Furious, Nonna drops the tricycle to the ground. Clunk. She wrenches the iron latch upwards, and the door swings silently open. Inside, prosciuttos hang claret and curing from the roof, apples rest red and saccharine on shelves next to bottled tomatoes and sweet fermenting wine. Trembling with anger Nipotino shoves Nonna from behind and she stumbles into the cellar. He slams shut the heavy timber door and lets the latch fall. Silence. Then the terrifying thumping from within begins, rattling the door in its hinges. Hastily Nipotino mounts his tangerine tricycle and pedals away. Later that day, when Mama can’t find Nonna, Nipotino says he will help look and rides ahead of her calling out for Nonna. Soon the whole family is searching for Nonna. When finally she is found, her incensed barking can be heard from anywhere in the house and makes Nipotino quiver like a bug tangled in the delicate filaments of a spider's web. Nipotino pedals arduously through the hall, out the open front door and down the cobblestones of the quant main street. His chest pounding knowing the beating he’s bound to get from more than just Nonna. Glancing over his shoulder he sees a raging Nonna chasing after him and he wonders how someone so old can run so fast. Helplessly, knowing he’ll be punished, he lowers his head, squints his eyes and flies down the street, a smile plastered to his face.

Young writer awards: The winners

The Hunter

By Floyd Whitaker

Is it really seven o’clock already? Slowly opening my eyes, I look around my dark bedroom. The sun won't be up for hours. I smile at the Starbucks girl when ordering my coffee, she always gives me a little extra. I sit down in a booth, in the corner, facing the window. I watch the cars hover by, generating low buzzes that subtly rattle the cafe. Rain begins to fall from the sky onto the street as the girl delivers me my beverage. She's drawn my name with a heart next to it. I check my phone, the numbers at the top tell me I have 20 minutes left until I need to clock in.

I get up to leave and smile at the girl as I walk out the door. Newspapers and magazines litter the city streets, signs advertising the 2042 Superbowl hang askew from street lamps and bus stops. It's always raining in the city, something to do with the pollution, the scientists say. The buildings grow taller as I round a bend and start along 33rd street. I cross the road and enter the building. I step into the elevator and press the button for the 56th floor. The elevator launches up and reaches the floor in seconds. ‘We’ve found one,’ says my boss, as I walk into his office.

‘What, really?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I thought we found the last of them years ago?’ ‘We missed one.’

I move my head up and down to show that I understand the situation as he gives me orders. My job consists of tracking down and exterminating the last of the androids – artificial humans used for manual labour, who decided that they didn't want to work anymore. In 2039 they went awol, developed their own ideas and opinions. When they tried to overthrow the congress, that was when we knew that they had to be stopped. Our goal is to find them and deactivate them, by any means necessary. We are known as ‘Hunters’. The company issued patrol cruiser hovers out of the underground lot and onto the street. The android’s address appears on the display and I floor it down the quiet streets. The screen tells me they won't be home for hours.

I pull up at a dilapidated highrise apartment building, five districts across the city. The whole thing seems awfully still, too still. I wait in the cruiser. A taxi pulls over, a hooded girl in a rain jacket steps out. She pays the driver and makes a beeline for the building. My radar scanner reads that she's an android, and she matches the description issued. I grab my trench coat, open the cruiser door and walk behind her as it begins to snow, trying not to look obvious. I enter the building as the elevator door shuts and I hear the motors grind as it launches up. I enter the second elevator and exit onto her floor, just in time to see her enter the apartment. With my hand on my holster I bang on the door with my fist five times. I hear the metal chain rattle and come loose and then the electronic lock rotates open. She opens the door ajar. In awe I drop my firearm onto the ground and pull the door shut. I let out a long deep sigh and bury my face in my hands. ‘No, no, no. Why her?’ I whisper. She opens the door again and looks at me.

‘Hi?’ she says. I say nothing. A car goes by in the distance followed by

the low rumble of thunder. ‘Come in, come in,’ she says and I follow her inside. I sit down on a couch as she brings me a coffee. ‘So what brings you here?’ She asks. I fake a smile. ‘Well…’ I start. ‘Well I thought I might as well drop by while I happened to be in the area.’

‘How did you get my address, more importantly,’ she says sheepishly. I gulp as she puts her hand behind her back as if to retrieve something. ‘You’re a Hunter, aren’t you,’ she says. I say nothing. Her arm snaps forward revealing a six-shooter and fires a bullet towards me. I jump backwards and fall into a heap behind the couch. Bullets fly past me. They stop after six shots. She wasn't counting her bullets. I leap up from behind the couch and send two shots into her face. Feathers and smoke fill the air as the android falls to the ground. I mark something on my wrist display and stare down at the Starbucks girl. Her fingers twitch in small spasms as her systems shut down. Starbucks tastes different after yesterday. Maybe it was the lack of friendliness from the staff, or maybe it was the smaller portion of coffee. Despite my thoughts, deep down I know what was done had to be done.

Young writer awards: The winners

The Jesse Blackadder Prize The Jesse Blackadder Prize was created in 2020 in memory of Jesse Blackadder (pictured), cherished Board member, author and founder of Byron Writers Festival’s StoryBoard program. This prize celebrates creativity and imagination in Stage 3 writers with a $300 cash prize for first place.

Prize Category (year 5-6) First place: ‘Allegro Presto’ by Edith Barber Runner up: ‘The Thief’ by Caleb Scherrer

Allegro Presto

By Edith Barber

Sitting solemnly in his chair, he slowly butters his toast, hands shaking, barely able to hold the knife securely. Dappled morning light shines down on his kitchen table revealing the neatly arranged condiments and the blue plastic table cover, largely untouched. On the right side of the circular table stands a singular oak chair. Also upon the table is one lace placemat which holds his cutlery, old and antique. The sparse belongings of the kitchen all have a place, tucked away neatly and organised in drawers, not a dish in sight. After he finishes his toast, he slowly hoists himself up, a prolonged action, completely reliant on his walking frame, before shuffling to the sink and hand washing his plate with great effort. He picks the crumbs off one by one, and slowly rubs a cloth along the rim of the plate till it shines. A pungent smell emerges from his teapot, like lavender and garden clippings. He pours the tea into a china cup and sips it slowly, still standing at the sink, looking through the lace curtains out into the yard. There is a quiet hum from the refrigerator, as he finishes his tea. The chime of the grandfather clock echoes down the hallway, past hanging framed photos of distant memories. The grand chimes strike nine times and fill every room in the house. The lounge room with nothing but an ancient television and a Lazyboy armchair, where he sits in silence and despondency every day. The formal dining room where the cabinet filled with precious crockery from Maude is left untouched, unblemished and unused since she left. The smell of mould and mothballs reek through the house and he was simply relieved no one came to stay. It had been that way forever. He readjusts his immaculately made bed in his antediluvian room. There are no cushions or fancy decorations, just a bed, a cupboard, and singular hanging pendant, its tired blue shade a reminder of the past. In due course, he makes his way steadily to the front door, before staring out through the screen to the letterbox. “It could do with a lick of paint,” he thinks to himself, though when was the last time he was caught painting? Maude would be mad with this. With nothing

else to do, he trots to his armchair and lowers himself down with a sigh. The day slips past, as he sits despondently. A regular, reliable ticking comes from the grandfather clock and it chimes every so often. Resting in his armchair, the old man hopelessly stares through the window, or across his familiar room, wherever he looks, he only sees blue. Shadows lengthen and haunt his room, making it seem obsolete. Blue hues dance across his room and fall in heavy shadows across the drab carpet. He sits glumly in his armchair and slowly nods off. Blue. Blue is all he sees. It’s even in his dreams. It’s all he’s seen since forever.

He is awoken by a noise... a saxophone it seems. The sweet tune reverberates into a crescendo before adjusting the volume to mezzo forte. The mellifluous piece, an unusual intruder, echoes through his house like the grandfather clock. The saxophone plays ‘Careless Whisper’ sparking a memory. It carries the tune so well and persecutes it with passion. Fully intrigued now, he gets up and walks to the front door: an effort. He follows the splendid sound. Carefully and methodically he makes his way down the front steps of his little house. He can’t remember the last time he ventured far. He continues to follow the tune, the one that enticed him to wander outside. It’s magical. Absolutely magical. His new neighbour, the one he has been observing from his kitchen window, is standing on her doorstep, playing music for him! She gives a little wave in between the notes. He is gripped by a smile. It spreads slowly across his face and he cups his hands into a wary clap or is it a wave in return? He sways uneasily on his legs to the music, abandoning his walker. Suddenly, colour seeps into his world and he notices the simple dazzling vibrancy in his front yard as he sways in time to the music. The mauve hydrangeas which Maude planted long ago: he observes they are fully bloomed and bright. The late afternoon sun tinges the sky a brilliant pink and small patches of sunlight glint off surrounding windows. The oncoming twilight creates an excitement in the air which seems to come alive with insects and encircle the old man, still on his front path, swaying. The late afternoon sky now turns a shade of vermillion before allowing the stars to shine luminously. He notices it all while swaying to the music. Neighbours’ faces appear at windows or front doors, also intrigued by this soothing melody. Splendid colour leaks into his once blue world, as the music continues. His grin widens.